These Small Hours
by JumpinPopTarts
Summary: The Rohirrim are celebrating the return of their Steward and their King, but Aragorn has something else on his mind and Legolas is determined to find out what it is... Legolas x Aragorn. Oneshot.


**These Small Hours- A Legolas/Aragorn fanfic**

**By JumpinPoptarts**

_Our lives are made_

_In these small hours_

_These little wonders_

_These twists and turns of fate_

_Time falls away but these small hours_

_These small hours_

_Still remain._

-Little Wonders, Rob Thomas.

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Gold lights danced across the plains of Rohan. Billows of steam poured from open doorways, pipes and dancing feet beating out a rhythm against the darkness beyond. The Rohirrim were celebrating the return of their king, and with all the fervour of a race of red-blooded Men. Bonfires burst like dragon tongues, hands few up over heads, eyes and grins and laughter rising through the eaves and into the sky. The small hours of the night were lit with song, and one that showed no signs of stopping.

Only one shadow stood still at the edge of the throng, the shade of a pillar reducing him to an outline; broad shoulders and a bowed head, hidden beneath the dark curve of a hood. Mid night had long since passed before he moved, sliding away from the dancers and out into the cold of the night.

The air was chill here, shifting over his skin like the caress of long, pale fingers. He shivered, gathering his cloak about him, and walked to the edge of the dias. Behind him lay the Great Hall of Rohan, and beneath, the raised stone platform that held it above the rest of the town and the plain itself, which yawned away to its far mountain fringe with only the silver ribbon of the road to mark it. Stars wheeled above his head, winking, the thousand gems of heaven scattered from horizon to horizon.

These stars had guided him though many nights when he had wandered as a ranger in the wild. Then, he had looked upon them as the lanterns of friends, a map held aloft to guide him safely home, but now …

Another shiver, one broad hand curling into the folds of his cloak. Now he felt their thousand gazes needling into his back; forever there, forever watching.

Judging the treacherous thoughts whirling in his brain.

"_Aragorn…"_

The call was so gentle, so soft and soothing that for a moment he thought it a sigh from the depths of his own mind. But then came the wavering scent of pine leaves, a stirring of the air and the padded yet deliberate step of an elf wishing to be heard.

A hand touched his shoulder.

The name was on his lips in an instant. Why would it not be? It was worked so deeply into him that to voice it was as effortless as breathing.

"Legolas."

"I am here." The musical voice was not quite a chuckle, but warm enough for him to imagine the smile at the corner of those arched lips and to feel his friend's breath like a mist-kiss against his ear.

"I worry for you, friend." The hand withdrew, a warm presence moving to stand beside him. He felt it like a tree would a forest fire; a latent energy whose proximity alone threatened to consume him. "You do not dance, and the Steward of Gondor already misses your presence."

"He has missed me perhaps for a moment, between the fourth and fifth tankard of ale. He must now be on his eighth, and thoughts of me long since passed."

A low chuckle at that, a real one. Aragorn sucked in a swift breath, and turned to look at his friend.

Legolas glowed tonight, his skin alabaster, his hair spun-light stolen from the moon herself, and shining even brighter. Aragorn had no patience with self-consciousness; his tastes and ways were simple, and he was contented with that. But in that second the roughness of his clothes itched at him, his calloused hands burrowing deeper into his cloak to remain out of sight.

But an elf's eyes missed nothing, still less when they were those of an archer. The elf's smile died a little, and the night grew darker with it.

"You are cold?"

"I have faced far worse temperatures than this."

"And I have been there to see it more than once, yet never have I seen you shrink so. Perhaps…" He stopped and bowed his beautiful head, hiding his expression from Aragorn's perceptive gaze. Silence drifted for a moment, each expecting the other to break it. Unusually, it was Legolas who broke first, completing his sentence with a voice barely above a whisper. "Perhaps the Lady Arwen occupies your thoughts."

Was there something in that voice? Something beside the calm and collected softness that never faltered, even when he was leaping on the back of a Cave Troll. Almost like…

"Perhaps." His voice wavered too, not because what Legolas had said was true; Arwen had left his mind the moment Rivendell was behind him, along with any feelings he had had for her. What she had said to him during their time there had been true; time _had_ passed since they first met, and Aragorn had grown into someone different. For all her words and promises, she too had seen that. They had parted on a quavering hope; that he would see sense and marry her when the journey was over and the ring was destroyed, but in their hearts neither expected to see that promise fulfilled.

But Aragorn's voice had still trembled, because Legolas had not been entirely wrong. Yes, a beautiful elven face _did_ fill his thoughts, but it was not Arwen's.

"Perhaps?" Again the strange tone, but sharper, brighter; almost like hope. Aragorn couldn't help himself, he had to know. Slowly, he reached out and placed a hand on Legolas' shoulder; his fingers resting lightly, as though afraid the slim bones would break. Legolas flinched, raising his head like a proud stallion refusing to back down. His eyes were pools of moonlight, bluer than the summer skies.

"If not the Lady Arwen then who else?" The words were a whisper, the lips that formed them tight with an emotion that Aragorn dared not define. He should have said 'what else', and Aragorn should have created some meaningless answer; a chafing in his boot, or some concern for the Hobbits, and the conversation would have moved on. Instead the words hung suspended in the air, more brilliant than the stars above their heads, and burning so bright that they could feel them scorch their skin. Aragorn's heart was racing. Something had to shift, something had to break.

His hand was still on Legolas' shoulder. The fabric beneath it was cool, the woven leaves picked out in silk thread, and gleaming against his skin. Carefully, like a child in awe, Aragorn let his palm travel up that shoulder until it found the base of a slender elven neck. Legolas was trembling again, his eyes so bright and piercing that Aragorn could hardly meet them. The elf did not move, but those eyes were screaming at him, shouting words that washed over him in waves, too loud and deep for him to understand.

His had reached the top of Legolas' collar, his fingers rising reverently to where fabric became warm, living flesh. Strands of corn silk hair caressed the back of his hand as he applied the gentlest of pressures, easing the elf forward until the two stood chest to chest, one face mere inches from the other.

"I-" Aragorn stuttered, "I- I don't…" Legolas sighed, a fraction of an elven curse hovering between them.

Then his arm swept up, clasped the back of Aragorn's neck, and crushed their lips together.

It was…beyond words. Aragorn's thoughts dissolved; his world shrinking to nothing but his pounding heart, those cool hands and that wonderful _wonderful _mouth, kissing his with such passionate grace that he could not hold back his own, shy response.

Neither knew how long they stood there, the starlight soaking them both, the plains rolling off in every direction like a sumptuous carpet. To an observer the scene was exquisite, but Legolas and Aragorn saw nothing but each other. The kisses became longer, hands wandering from neck to shoulder, from shoulder to chest. Aragorn's arm curled around Legolas' back, holding the elf against him in a way he had never held a woman. This was it, everything he had hoped, dreamed, prayed and scolded himself for ever since he had first seen Legolas.

_Legolas…_

The name wove through his thoughts, stark as a firebrand yet natural as a pulse.

A tankard smashed inside the great hall, prompting a wave of laughter and drunken whoops. Their embrace broke in that same instant, both leaping apart as though burned. Aragorn's lips were bruised, a few wisps of Legolas' hair ruffled out of place. For a moment they stared at each other, caught between joy and terror, unable to believe what they had done.

Then Legolas cocked his head towards the door, giving Aragorn a slow-burning smile that made his head spin. Wordlessly, the ranger stepped after his elven friend, and the two of them walked back to join the banquet, shoulder to shoulder, their fingers brushing in the shadow between their bodies.

Later, the rest of their companions would ask them about the strange smiles on their faces, or the way they spoke together with perfect understanding, as though they shared something deeper than words. None would get more than a vague smile in return; this was a secret too fragile to share yet, something to be savoured in the handful of hours they could steal alone. A tiny touch, a lingering glance, maybe a kiss stolen in the dappled shade of a tree…one precious moment, and the promise of more, to make their days one shade brighter.

And that, for now, was enough.

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This fic is dedicated to my darling wifey Mary, who is going to university soon and thus depriving me of anyone to 'fangirl' with. Miss you!

Everyone else, I really hope you enjoyed my second ever LOTR fic. Comments, crit and suggestions for future stories are most welcome.

C'mon, click the pretty button 'kay? : )


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